


The Measure of a Man

by Cherilyn (Ankh), hgdoghouse



Series: Fumbling Towards Ecstasy [3]
Category: The Fugitive (1993)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ankh/pseuds/Cherilyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse





	The Measure of a Man

The heating cranked up against the sub-zero temperature outside, Gerard wore only black shorts and a tee shirt baggy enough to house two of him as he padded bare foot into the kitchen, smugly conscious that he had completed all his self-imposed chores. Hooking a couple of beers from the refrigerator, he microwaved some popcorn and headed upstairs.

Settling himself on the couch, he punched cushions into submission. But the whine of the wind around the corner of the house made him get up and pull back a corner of the drapes. It was snowing even harder. Glad he’d had the sense to buy them both four-wheel drives for use during the winter months, he made himself comfortable again.

He flicked through the TV Guide, looking for something to watch until Richard should get home. He considered the respective merits of Eastwood and Bogart; in no mood for too much realism, he flicked on ‘The Maltese Falcon’ and reached for the popcorn.

It was too bad he’d arrived home too late to accompany Richard to the hospital fund-raiser, he mused insincerely. Still, he was finally up-to-date on his paperwork. He licked salt from his fingers with a voluptuous pleasure.

Forty minutes into the film, he relaxed on hearing the sounds of Kimble arriving home.

“I’m up,” he called, when he heard quiet sounds on the stairs. The noise intensified.

Tie already removed, his shirt unfastened, Kimble was shrugging out of his dinner jacket as he came into the room.

“How was the evening?” asked Gerard, muting the volume on the television.

Kimble paused in the act of removing his shoes to give him a moody look. “I bet you used to pull the wings off flies when you were a kid.”

“Every chance I got. Rubbing salt into wounds is even more fun.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“Technically correct.”

His second shoe in his hand, Kimble pointed it at Gerard. “Don’t even think of starting with me tonight.” Tossing the shoe to the ground, he unfastened his evening pants, leaving them puddled on the floor.

“Or what?” mocked Gerard.

“I haven’t got the energy,” complained Kimble, giving a long, slow stretch. “It’s too bad you didn’t finish work early enough to join me.”

Nobody’s fool, Gerard had the sense to keep quiet.

“That’s what I thought,” said Kimble dryly. “You’re a rat-fink bastard. Still, at least one of us had a good evening.”

“The best.” Gerard’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of popcorn.

An accurately lobbed cushion bounced off his chest. Because Kimble was continuing to strip Gerard made no attempt to retaliate.

“And you can take that expression off your face,” Kimble told him with asperity. “Unlike you, feeling irritable doesn’t make me horny.”

Gerard gave a derisive snort. “You’ve gotta admire your powers of self-deception. I sometimes think breathing is enough to make you horny.”

“No, just you,” said Kimble simply. “Though you were technically correct.” Looking less than heroic in white briefs and black socks, he perched on the edge of the couch, closing one hand over Gerard’s baggy tee shirt to reel him in for a sloppy kiss.

“Bourbon,” grimaced Gerard.

“Tough,” said Kimble unsympathetically, before he kissed Gerard again, taking his time.

“I could get used to it,” conceded Gerard, before he buried his face in the hollow between Kimble’s shoulder and neck, snuffling.

“What are you doing?” enquired Kimble, but this time his tone was indulgent.

“Trying to smell you beneath the booze and the smoke. You’d think doctors would have the sense to quit smoking.”

“Yeah. But at least you did,” said Kimble with satisfaction. “Will you stop it! You’re making me shiver. No wonder they call you Big Dog. Uh, no. Don’t. I need a piss. And a shower.” Kimble was already heading for the bathroom.

He reappeared a short time later, naked except for an open bathrobe as he rubbed his hair dry with a hand towel.

“What are you watching? Oh. Great movie. So what have you been doing all evening?”

“Well, it lacked the glamor of yours, that’s for sure. While you were pinning a look of interest in place I was watching ‘Pinkie and the Brain’, eating junk food and enjoying a cool beer. Oh, and I taped the game for you.”

“Yeah?” Kimble’s face lit up. “I suppose you want an early night.”

“It’s ten after two,” Gerard pointed out dryly, switching off the TV and getting to his feet.

“Ah. But it’s Saturday tomorrow. Day of rest.”

“Watch the damn game,” Gerard said tolerantly. “Just don’t wake me up yelling at the screen.”

“I’ll take it downstairs.”

Flipping the towel over Kimble’s face, Gerard yanked him into the bedroom and unpeeled him from his bathrobe.

“Whose turn is it?” mocked Kimble, all bright-eyed anticipation as he watched Gerard’s purposeful strip.

“I have no idea. Except that tonight, you’re mine,” said Gerard, a fiercely predatory look on his face.

He was the only person in the world Kimble would submit to without argument and so he settled on the bed Gerard had rearranged, already achingly hard and trembling with anticipation, as if this was the first time they had made love. He knew it would be good, it always was with Sam, but that was the only predictable thing about Gerard’s lovemaking, his unerring instinct seeming to tell him what Kimble wanted before he knew himself.

Almost before Kimble had settled himself belly down, legs slightly parted, face in the pillow, Gerard was over him, touching only in a couple of small places at first. Then Sam’s broad tongue slid down the center of his spine in a wet, warm stripe that made what felt like every hair on Kimble’s back stand on end. He shivered with pleasure as Gerard did it again, and again, marking and remarking territory he had made his own a long time ago. With the next stripe his tongue went clear to Kimble’s tailbone, before it curled up wetly to circle his twitching anus. His fingers cramping in the bed linen Kimble heard the muffled sounds he was making without being able to stop them. Sam was playing with him now, his tongue pressing strongly against the place where the pulse throbbed, teasing him with his vulnerability.

There were calluses on the large hand that stroked up his thighs to knead his ass, making him writhe slowly against the abrasion of the rumpled sheet beneath him. Then Sam’s tongue was replaced by a lubricant-slick finger sinking in to him with a steady inexorability that was just what he needed. Sparks snapping along his nerve endings, Kimble moaned into the pillow, then found time to suck in a dizzying rush of air just as Gerard’s finger left him, to be replaced by his dick sliding home in one long thrust of certainty and possession.

Life pulsing in him, moving to the slow, steady rhythm that took him over and over again, he felt the warmth of Sam Gerard all around him and cried out as the tempo imposed on him became impossible to resist. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to beg in a slurred litany of need. Pushing back and up, he welcomed the thrusts which were literally moving him up the mattress. Gerard’s arm encircled his chest, soft hair tickling erect nipples, sinew and muscle flexing as Gerard held him fast. Thrusting into a callused hand, he cried out Sam’s name as he came with an intensity so great he thought it must shake him apart. He was still shaking when he heard Gerard’s grunt as he came. It was only then, gulping down air, that Kimble became aware that he was on his knees, his weight supported by the man breathing heavily against his neck, mouth seemingly intent on sucking up the scent of him. His hands covered the arm banding his chest.

“So,” said Kimble breathlessly, “you gonna start any day soon?”

Warm chuffs of air gusted against his skin as Gerard laughed silently, from deep in his belly before he used the advantage their position gave him to topple Kimble back onto the mattress and settle over him.

“You let me know when you wanna surrender,” Gerard growled, nosing behind the neat set of Kimble’s right ear.

There was a stubborn silence.

“You wanna remind yourself that I’m not the only one who’s ticklish?” pursued Gerard relentlessly.

Kimble’s head turned, with some difficulty given their respective positions. “You wouldn’t,” he said, aghast.

“How long have you known me?”

“I surrender,” said Kimble cravenly.

Gerard’s smug expression survived the short time it took Kimble to take advantage of his inattention.

“I didn’t think I had the energy for that,” mumbled Kimble. Limp from love and laughter and the sheer pleasure that came from being with Sam, he was half-asleep already.

Busy remaking the bed around him, Gerard drew the covers up over Kimble’s shoulders. “As I recall, I did most of the work”

“I noticed,” said Kimble, with a wicked, if sleepy, grin. “That sure beat a ‘Welcome Home’ mat.”

“What?” asked Gerard, on his way to the bathroom.

A soft snore was his only reply.

oOo

Having neglected to draw the drapes across the bedroom windows they woke earlier than they had intended, their bedroom sun-drenched with the brilliance reflected off the drifts of snow. Gerard’s intention of pulling the covers over his head and going back to sleep were defeated by his companion, although Kimble had the sense not to attempt any conversation for the first five minutes.

“So... Thanksgiving,” said Kimble, through a mouthful of toast.

Far slower to wake in the mornings, Gerard mumbled something indistinguishable and slumped a little lower on his chair.

“What was I thinking? Here.” Kimble handed him a large mug of black coffee.

While Gerard slowly ingested caffeine Kimble ate the last of the toast, licked honey from his fingers and ate three lychees. Eventually, his less-than-subtle tongue action while recapturing juice attracted Gerard’s attention.

“What were you thinking about what?” he asked vaguely, his gaze still on Kimble’s lower lip.

Leaning forward, Kimble cradled the back of Gerard’s head in his hand. “Never mind,” he sighed, planting chaste kiss on Gerard’s forehead. “You need more sleep.” He took another lychee from the bowl.

“You’ve had the same amount as me. How is it you’re so damn perky?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Kimble licked up the juice sliding down to his wrist.

“Damn it, Richard.” Gerard groaned and eased him closer for a protracted open-mouthed kiss that tasted of coffee and betrayed his increasingly wakeful state.

“Here, have a lychee.” Kimble broke open the shiny white flesh and pushed up the gleaming seed at the center of the fruit.

“You tormenting son-of-a-bitch. Don’t make promises you know you can’t live up to.”

“I might.”

Gerard snorted. “Right. Are you gonna make any eggs?”

“No, but I’ll peel you a lychee.”

Muttering under his breath, Gerard got up, put a pan on the stove to heat, added a small amount of butter and set bread in the toaster. On his way to the refrigerator he paused to bat Kimble round the back of the head.

“Enough with the battery,” said Kimble. “What about Thanksgiving?”

Cracking four eggs into a bowl, Gerard added black pepper, salt and paprika and began to whisk them. “If this is an intelligence test I’m failing it miserably. It’s Thanksgiving in a week. Are you planning something?”

“Uh.” A chair scraped as Kimble got up and went over to where Gerard stood. “Not exactly. I promised I’d work that weekend to free up someone with kids. I should have checked with you first.”

“Relax,” said Gerard easily, having expected this. “There are benefits.” Pouring the beaten eggs into the pan, he began to stir in quick, light movements.

“There are?” Kimble looked mildly affronted.

“No sport on TV, or distraction from doing some chores around the place. And no, they don’t involve power tools,” Gerard anticipated tartly.

Kimble parted his hands. “I wasn’t going to say a word.” He automatically took toast from the toaster as Gerard spooned eggs onto a plate.

“Where’s mine?”

“I could resort to childish repartee but I’m above that.”

“That’s enlightened of you. Where’s mine?”

“In the pan.”

“Great. Too much paprika,” Kimble said, after his first mouthful.

Because it was undeniable, Gerard just nodded and kept on eating.

“Why aren’t you working over Thanksgiving?” asked Kimble.

“Because I’m a Federal employee and get time off. The only transfers of prisoners that will take place are of those so sick they’re in no state to think of escaping.”

Kimble gave his partner a fond look. “The authority with which you spout bullshit never ceases to amaze me.”

“It’s a talent,” conceded Gerard. “Honed by years of fighting for a bigger budget. With Thanksgiving so close, Christmas can’t be far behind.”

“And they told me you were dumb,” said Kimble wonderingly.

“You want to do anything in particular?” continued Gerard as if there had been no interruption.

Kimble just looked him over, taking his time in all the predictable places.

Gerard shook his head. “Do you even understand the concept of shame?” Despite himself, his body continued to respond to that sultry-eyed appraisal.

Kimble gave a slow grin. “Getting to you, am I?”

“Like that would be a novelty,” said Gerard with feeling.

Kimble tried to look misunderstood.

Gerard gave a sigh of the sorely tried. Richard had ‘cute’ down to a fine art. To his chagrin, while he could spot when Richard was playing that card, he never seemed able to hold out against it.

“Spare me the puppy dog eyes,” he groaned, resisting the urge to cradle that worried-looking face between his hands and kiss that lush pouting mouth until they had no option but to spend the rest of the morning in bed.

“OK,” said Kimble briskly. “Damn it, Sam. You’re too easy.”

“I know. I never figured the day would come when I would take pride in being called a slut.”

“Don’t over-play,” Kimble advised him.

“Too much?”

“By a mile.”

“Then I best practice subtlety while you check what food we need to buy on our way back.”

“From where?”

“A comic fair. We’re picking Kathy up at one thirty. And don’t pout, it’s not becoming. Besides, there’ll be Superman stuff there.”

“Cool,” said Kimble, reconciled to his fate in a heartbeat.

Gerard looked pained. “Cool?” he echoed with disdain.

Kimble pretended not to hear him.

oOo

Busy unpacking groceries while Gerard immersed himself in a Batman comic, Kimble stopped singing what he could remember of ‘Louie Louie’ for approximately the fifteenth time.

“As we’ve both booked vacation time between the 26th and 3rd do you want to go away? Sam?”

“It would be kind of dumb if we hadn’t booked the same time, wouldn’t it?” enquired Gerard, looking up from his comic.

“Save it, I’m not going to rise. So, you wanna go away?” pursued Kimble.

“Only if you promise to stop singing that damn song. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Yesss!”

Gerard ignored the fist punching the air and look of glee on Kimble’s face. “As for what we do, I don’t care what it is so long as we spend some time together. Lazing in front of the fire playing backgammon gets my vote.”

“Stay at home then,” said Kimble contentedly, before he went back to singing.

Knowing when he was beaten, Gerard went to help put away groceries.

They spent the rest of the evening comfortably settled in front of a log fire with a bottle of wine and a backgammon marathon.

“Do we have to see anyone over Christmas?” asked Kimble.

“Nope. The time’s all ours.”

“It’ll be great. Though I bet you get called out at some point,” added Kimble with gloom.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Twenty bucks says I won’t be the one who blows our vacation out of the water.”

“You’ve gotta watch all this positive thinking...”

“So what do you bet me?”

“Anything you like. Except money, of course. How about the loser belongs to the winner for twenty four hours?”

“The perfect no-lose situation,” noted Kimble with approval.

“I thought so. Is it a deal?”

“Rely on it. And I aim to win.”

“Everyone should aim high,” said Gerard blandly.

Kimble contented himself with a brooding look.

oOo

Having managed to avoid the wave of ‘flu that was sweeping through the city, they spent a wonderfully lazy Christmas Day together, making the most of their rude health.

The phone calls began at six thirty-three the following morning, following a sighting of number three on the Ten Most Wanted list, and the discovery of just how many deputies were unavailable due to vacations out of state and the ‘flu. As Supervising Deputy the mess was Gerard’s to sort out.

“Wait, I need to check with Richard,” he said, covering the mouthpiece, only to see Kimble packing a bag for him.

“You sure?” said Gerard.

“Given my hours I can hardly bitch at you, now can I. Who will you be working with?”

“Poole, Bobby and Hernandez. Good people.”

“Just finish your call,” said Kimble, disconcerted that Sam could read him quite so easily.

Five minutes later Gerard was gone. The house seemed quiet and far larger without his vitality spilling out, bringing everything to life. Ignoring the clothes sliding off hangers in the closet and spilling from half-open drawers, Kimble stumbled back to bed. It seemed enormous. Without really being aware of what he was doing, he slid onto the side Gerard usually occupied, burying his face in a pillow which, comfortingly, bore the echo of Gerard’s scent.

An hour later he was called in to cover for a sick colleague. Three hours later the city was in the grip of another snow storm.

oOo

Less than ecstatic to find himself slipping and sliding through freezing cold vegetation, Gerard kept his team as motivated and happy as could be expected in the circumstances. The hunt for Goodbright ended in some of the most uncomfortable terrain it had been his misfortune to travel through. Quality of life wasn’t improved when they got snowed in for three days at the seedy motel they had been using, along with the local sheriff and two of his deputies.

Gerard finally got back to Chicago, prisoner in tow, just before the worst blizzard in a decade hit. The formalities dealt with, he lent his four-wheel drive to Henry Ritchie, who had been fretting about getting back to his family. Satisfied that the rest of his kids were on their way home, Gerard called the house but got only the sound of Kimble’s voice inviting him to leave a message after the tone - though why he’d kidded himself Richard wouldn’t still be working was a mystery. A second phone call to North Western Memorial ascertained that Kimble had been living at the hospital since the emergency began. Of the view he would be lucky to get home in the blizzard that was raging, Gerard weighed up his options, then set out for the hospital on foot.

Learning that Kimble had only just gone back into theater, he gave a resigned nod and asked for a message to be sent in to let Richard know he was back. Grateful that he still had several changes of clean clothes in his travel bag, Gerard showered, shaved and slept for five hours on the floor of Kimble’s office, a note stuck to the door explaining who he was to the uninitiated. Waking to a need for sustenance, Gerard headed up to the canteen. Grimacing over the indifferent coffee, he ate with disbelief; about all that could be said in the food’s favor was that it was better than nothing.

Revitalized as his blood sugar rose, he began to appreciate just how depleted staffing levels were. Hardly surprising, given the combination of the holiday season, ‘flu epidemic and weather, he reminded himself. The city was at a virtual standstill. Sighing unenthusiastically, he went off to offer his services, knowing that in this highly skilled environment he would be cleaning the john - if he was lucky.

oOo

The city effectively shut down, the atmosphere around the hospital become positively party-like as staff worked ridiculous hours, coping with each new crisis before lurching on to the next. Energized after a four hour nap, and with a choice between showering, shaving or eating, Kimble opted for the latter. Heading for the canteen, his expression brightened when he saw Gerard three people down the queue.

“I hear you’ve been making yourself busy,” he remarked, by way of a greeting as Gerard moved back to join him. He saw Sam’s eyes check him over, making sure he was OK, just as he was doing to Gerard.

“That he has,” said Abe Turner, the acting head of ER, as he arrived behind them. “Sam’s been a pillar of strength.”

Gerard looked pained. “No need to get carried away. I’ve graduated from mopping floors to gophering, that’s all. Not rocket science.”

Undeceived, Kimble grinned. “You mean he hasn’t tried to organize ER yet?”

“You let him be,” commanded Turner, looking pained when he discovered the limited food available; he wasn’t in the habit of eating in the hospital. “He’s been of invaluable service.”

“I excel at cleaning,” translated Gerard. “Save it, Abe. I’m dumb enough to go back once I’ve eaten whatever this is.” Heading for a table, because the expression in Richard’s eyes was making him fidget, he viewed the meal on his plate with suspicion.

“How’s the meat loaf?” he asked Kimble, as the other man continued chewing.

“Definitely dead,” adjudged Kimble. “Your nut loaf?”

“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” said Gerard with truth. “I thought you were joking about the canteen.”

“I never joke about food.” Kimble ate something sloppy and green that vaguely resembled beans. “I’d kill for a steak,” he added wistfully. “How did the job go?”

“No problems. Except for Bobby Biggs, who claims he’s got frostbite on his dick.”

“Just so long as yours is all right. You should be home, catching up on your sleep.”

“I caught some sleep on the floor of your office. Trust me, it was more comfortable than the motel we had to stay in. You still hungry?”

Kimble nodded. “I seem to have missed a few meals.”

“Then finish this. I can get something later but you never know when you’ll be called aw - “

Kimble’s pager interrupted what Gerard had been about to say.

“God is merciful,” Kimble said. “Your meal looked even more unappealing than mine.” He took the banana Sam handed him with a nod of thanks before hurrying off, collecting a couple of his surgical team on the way.

oOo

Things eventually quietened down just after midnight. Having checked on all his patients Kimble headed for ER. He eventually located Gerard sitting beside the bed of an elderly black man, who was busy fleecing him at gin.

“You haven’t come to take Sam away, have you?” the man demanded, between rattling gasps for breath.

“Richard Kimble, meet Lester Pullman. Who I’m pretty sure is cheating,” Gerard added dryly.

“Well, if you knew, why didn’t you say something?” wheezed Pullman indignantly.

Gerard gave a faint grin. “I only just spotted you at it,” he admitted, swallowing a yawn.

“Apart from being slow off the mark because he’s tired, Sam’s depressingly honest,” said Kimble, one hand casually resting on his lover’s shoulder, in lieu of the caress he would have offered had they been alone.

Gerard glanced up at him. “You want me to cheat?”

“It might liven the game up,” said Lester with disgust.

“Sam, cheat?” hooted Kimble with derision.

Indignant at that slur on his manhood, Gerard scowled. “Are you suggesting I can’t?” he demanded.

Kimble snorted. “I know for a fact you couldn’t do it without being spotted.”

“You think?” Gerard gave him a speculative look. “What are you prepared to bet?”

“Watch yourself, Sam, that’s a doctor you’re talking to. He can afford high stakes,” said Pullman.

“No problem,” Gerard said easily. “So can I. I’m living off a rich lover.”

Taken by surprise, Kimble choked.

“Yeah? Way to go,” said Pullman with approval. “I was always on the look out for a rich honey myself. But now I know you’re loaded, let’s play gin.” His grin was pure wickedness. “I’ve always wanted to fleece a highroller. Just never found one until now. You think you can cheat me, you’re welcome to try. I’ve been playing gin since I started working in the freight yard nearly seventy years ago.”

Gerard gave an anticipatory grin. “Lester, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

oOo

Gerard continued to wash the floor of the Men’s Room as another customer arrived. If nothing else, this experience had taught him that their maid deserved a hefty raise. Rinsing the mop head, and twisting it dry with a new-found expertise, he glanced up to find Kimble shaking his head at him, a broad grin almost eradicating the fatigue on his face.

“Hi,” he said, cupping his hands over the top of the wooden mop handle and resting his chin on the back of his hands.

“I should think of some sparkling repartee to cover this,” said Kimble vaguely.

“This is you we’re talking about, isn’t it? You look terrible.”

“Nothing a working electric razor and eight hours sleep won’t cure,” reassured Kimble, ambling over to him, oblivious to the dirty footprints he was leaving on just washed tiles. Extending his hand, he flicked his fingers for the mop. “Let me have that. I’ll finish up in here for you.”

“While I clean out some veins?” returned Gerard, giving him a gentle nudge with his hip. “You mind?” Gesturing for Kimble to move, he pointedly cleaned away the dirty footprints. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

“I came to find you. The roads have been cleared, fresh staff are coming in. My relief has arrived. So has yours. We can go home and start our vacation. You can take your vacation?”

“Of course. I’m almost done here.”

Containing his impatience, Kimble reminded himself that it was only to be expected that Sam’s perfectionism would extend to washing floors.

oOo

Kimble leant back against the front door Gerard had just secured. “Home, with no interruption for five whole days,” he said dreamily. “Seven, if you count the weekend. I’ve got all kinds of plans for us.” His voice was muffled by a series of yawns.

Recognizing that Richard was in danger of sliding down the door as he fell asleep, Gerard gave him a tolerant look and steered him up to bed.

oOo

“Time for each other at last,” said Kimble with satisfaction, wrapping Gerard in a bone-cracking hug before he ambled off to fix breakfast. His first hit of caffeine dispelled his look of sleepy-eyed lethargy.

Infuriatingly alert due only to his forty minute head start on consciousness, Gerard ate bagels, drank coffee and stroked Kimble, all while reading a week old newspaper.

Inhaling more caffeine than he drank, Kimble grew livelier in slow stages so that by the time the dishwasher was full he was back to full throttle. He went to help Gerard bring logs in from the porch to the log bin in the living room.

“When are you going to make good that bet you lost?” he enquired, watching Sam add wood to the fire blazing in the hearth and replace the fireguard.

“You remembered that?” Gerard looked resigned.

“You thought I was going to forget the prospect of having you in my power for twenty four hours?”

“I guess I was being overly optimistic. So what do you want me to do?”

“Clear the snow from the paths round the back,” said Kimble matter of factly.

Having confidently expected to be made Richard’s love-slave for the day - or worse case scenario, have to load the dishwasher - Gerard stared at him aghast.

“But it’s so cold out,” he protested, perilously close to whining.

“It usually is when there’s three feet of snow left on the ground.”

Seeing a way out of this, Gerard brightened. “It doesn’t matter if we’re snowed in. We’re on vacation.” Crouching down, he held out his hands to the fire, enjoying the leap and dance of the flames and scent of the burning wood.

“I was talking about the paths out back,” said Kimble heartlessly. “Although I can understand why you’re not up for it. Clearing snow is real hard work,” he mused.

Balanced easily on his haunches Gerard swivelled around to give him a considering look. “You really thought that was going to do it?” he asked in a pitying tone of voice.

Kimble gave a philosophical shrug. “It was worth a try.”

“You want me out the way for a while, is that it?”

“Odd as it may seem, no. And spare me any cute looks. You always overplay it,” Kimble added provocatively.

“Which just shows it must be lack of practice on my part.”

“Right,” snorted Kimble. “Come on. A bet’s a bet. Out you go.”

Disillusion on his face, Gerard rose to his feet and headed for the kitchen. With a theatrical sigh he yanked on a luxuriously padded jacket, a pale blue woolen helmet and thick gloves before he gave Kimble a look of appeal.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he muttered, in that second bearing an uncanny resemblance to a sulky six year old who had failed to get his own way.

“Which makes you a slow learner as well as a bad loser,” returned Kimble hard-heartedly.

“It must be minus three out there. I might catch cold.” Gerard did his best to look fragile.

Kimble just grinned. “Then clearing the paths will keep you warm, with the added benefit of being an excellent cardio-vascular workout. Besides, you lost the bet, I won. Live with it.”

Muttered complaints about over-competitive assholes drifted over to Kimble, from where Gerard, standing on one leg, was pulling on protective footwear. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you.” His indulgent expression negated his pained tone.

An uncomplicated smile lit Kimble’s face. “You bet. How would you feel about making a snowman?” he asked, out of the blue.

“Are you on medication?”

“It was just a thought. It’s been a while since we’ve seen the sun. I intend to make the most of it. So I’m going out. Alone,” Kimble added bravely.

Gerard looked resigned. “You really want me to freeze my ass off outside?”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

Backing away, Gerard shook his head. “Oh no, not even for you will I make out in the snow. It’s freezing out there.”

“Sex was the last thing on my mind,” said Kimble indignantly.

“That’s a first.”

About to refute that, innate honesty made Kimble grin in acknowledgment. “Come outside, Sam,” he wheedled. “Just to humor me.”

Gerard looked unimpressed.

Kimble stuck out his lower lip.

“That won’t help your cause,” Gerard told him hard-heartedly.

Kimble ran his tongue over the same lip, his palm sliding slowly down his torso. “This could all be yours,” he murmured.

Gerard gave him a patient look. “Like that’s a novelty.”

“Well, yeah.” Kimble abandoned subtlety. “Come on, Gerard. Haul ass. I’m going to keep complaining until you come out with me. Fresh air’s good for you.”

“I’ll probably catch pneumonia.”

“Then I’ll cure it. I am a doctor.”

The scene outside might have been designed by the Disney studios: the sky was a blue so brilliant it almost hurt the eyes, ice particles glittering like precious stones. The air was very still, the silence broken only by the sound of snow sliding from a too slender branch and the noise made by the birds squabbling over the food left out for them in the feeders.

“See?” said Kimble, his arms outstretched as if he was responsible for all this glory.

Determinedly unimpressed, Gerard sniffed. “It’s not bad.”

“Sam,” reproached Kimble.

“So I lied. Damn but it’s pretty out,” Gerard added, some more of the tension lines easing on his face.

“We could be the only people around for miles,” said Kimble, contentedly soaking up the tranquility.

“There could be a good reason for that. But Gerard’s tone was tolerant, even if freezing his butt off wasn’t such a novelty for him.

“Is that a wood pecker?” Grabbing Gerard’s hand, Kimble took an impetuous step forward and fell into a snowdrift.

Hauling him out, self-preservation stopped Gerard from commenting. He pretended not to notice when Kimble began to construct a snowman, knowing himself too well to suppose he would be able to resist the impulse to interfere.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but do you want to help?” asked Kimble a short time later, conscious of the gaze burning two holes in his back.

They were squabbling amicably within a minute, Gerard busy on his own snowman a short time later, the shovels they had found proving useful in the competition that was underway.

Stepping back in the hope that his construction wasn’t listing to the left, Kimble saw that Gerard had stopped shoveling snow.

“Too much for you, huh?” he mocked.

“And when did you last have any exercise?” returned Gerard. “It sometimes feels as if I spend half my life racing after strangers. I need to take a piss,” he added, his decisive tone giving the announcement more weight than it deserved. Positioning himself in front of the tree he had selected for the purpose, he became aware that he had company. “I don’t,” he added tartly, “need an audience.”

Ignoring him, Kimble hid his inner amusement at Big Dog’s choice of location. Realizing he had never consciously watched Gerard during this most mundane of functions, he hooked his chin over the other man’s shoulder the better to enjoy the view.

“Richard, quit digging me in the shoulder,” commanded Gerard, removing his heavy leather gloves so he could work his way through the layers of clothing he was wearing.

“How else am I going to be able to watch?” Kimble asked reasonably.

Gerard’s head turned. “Did I just hear you right?”

“Probably.”

“You’re one sad puppy. Damn, but it’s cold,” Gerard muttered.

“Leave this to me.” Kimble yanked off his gloves. Sliding his arms around the other man’s torso, and finding it far bulkier than usual, he unerringly located his target and took charge of the forthcoming operation.

“Richard, I can hold my own dick,” Gerard said patiently but he made no attempt to resist as he was eased from the protective warmth of his clothing.

“I know that. But it’s more fun when I do it. Well, come on then, pee. I am a doctor.”

“That’s a great comfort to me. How do you expect me to take a piss while you’re holding my dick?”

“The same way you usually do. Unless you’re shy,” Kimble added wickedly.

Scorn on his face, Gerard turned as far as he was able given that the most vulnerable part of him was in restraint. Recognizing the silent challenge set by his lover, he shifted his feet slightly and began to urinate into the ankle deep snow.

“Damn it, Richard! That almost hit my boot! What the hell are you doing?”

“Ssh, don’t distract me. I’m writing your name in the snow.” Kimble’s tone made it plain that fact should have been obvious to the meanest intelligence.

Gerard’s lips moved in a not-too-silent prayer for patience. “Of course you are. Why didn’t I think of that? I can’t believe I’m letting you make piss-letters in the snow.” Torn between amusement and outrage, he tried to turn.

“Don’t stop,” Kimble commanded, “I’ve just started writing the ‘m’. Technically you’re the one making the letters. I’m only your artistic director.” He was holding the head of Gerard’s dick between his forefinger and thumb the better to direct the stream of urine. “Stop laughing,” he scolded, “you’re messing up the flow.”

While the competitive spirit which burned so brightly enabled Gerard to meet the demands made of him, the last line of the ‘m’ was definitely shorter than the first two.

“Jeez, that was hard work,” he complained in heartfelt tones.

Kimble shook him dry, gave him a light, affectionate squeeze and tucked him back into the warmth of his clothing, which Gerard made haste to refasten.

“Stop complaining. It wasn’t brain surgery,” Kimble said.

“You noticed that, huh?” All his fastenings fastened to protect his dick from any more of Kimble’s mad schemes, Gerard folded his arms and delivered one of his patented stares. “It’s your turn now. I wanna see you write your name. _Richard _.”__

Kimble gave him a wounded look. “You mean you’re not going to help me?”

“Right first time. In case you’d forgotten, holding your dick ceased to be a novelty some months ago.”

“I know what it is, I’ve lost my mystery,” mourned Kimble.

“Enough with the delaying tactics. Take out your dick and start pissing.”

His expression perilously close to smug, Kimble unzipped and promptly set about writing ‘Dick’ in the snow.

Gerard watched his efforts unimpressed. “Isn’t that kind of obvious? Small, too. Mine’s far bigger,” he observed critically.

“Your dick’s not a bad size either.”

Gerard gave him a look of pity. “That’s kind of predictable, isn’t it. Even by your standards. Besides, my name’s written in far bigger letters than yours.”

“Nonsense,” said Kimble as he tucked himself back into the warm. No wonder Sam had been complaining, it was freezing.

“Here, I’ll prove it. We’ll measure the size of both names.”

“If I must. Take this twig.” Breaking off two from the birch beside them, Kimble inadvertently showered both Gerard and himself with powdery snow.

Intent on the challenge ahead, Gerard just shook it off before comparing the size of their respective twigs. “Yours is wider.”

“Nature was kind to me,” said Kimble modestly, patting his groin with gratitude.

Crouched in the snow, Gerard muffled his snorts of amusement against his Kimble’s leg.

Loving the sight of Gerard flushed with laughter, cares banished, if only for a short while, Kimble patted the top of the hideous headgear Gerard was wearing.

“This is what I like to see, Sam Gerard lost for the words with which to express my magnificence. Now concentrate. My name is definitely bigger.”

Within seconds they were bickering amicably about the fairest way in which to measure the signatures.

Frowning with concentration, oblivious for now of the cold and damp, Gerard’s head rose when he heard Kimble’s gurgle of amusement. About to demand what the joke was, it belatedly occurred to him that Richard had him grubbing around in the snow, arguing about the size of piss-letters. Rising to his full height, and discovering the cold clamminess of the wet denim which clung to his knees, he studied his openly laughing companion with satisfaction.

A few moments later he noticed the drifted snow behind Kimble.

A smile that was beautiful to see lighting his face, Gerard set the palm of his hand in the center of Kimble’s chest and exerted the slightest pressure, which was all that was required to push his off-guard and off-balance lover into the snowdrift.

Flat on his back, Kimble’s face was alight with delight as he grinned up at the sky and the man filling his horizon.

“I hate a poor loser,” he said piously, just before he spat snow from his mouth.

“I’m the one still standing.” Gerard neatly anticipated the leg which shot out to trip him up, then realized he hadn’t been the target. Kimble was moving his outstretched arms and legs in a rapid scissoring motion.

“I can’t remember the last time I made a snow angel,” Kimble said, stilling at last.

“Up you get. I’d hate your best asset to get frost-bitten.”

“I thought you said you loved my eyes,” accused Kimble, once he was vertical again.

“Not more than your ass,” reproved Gerard, pausing to kiss Richard’s snow-chilled mouth before he turned towards the house.

“You made me squash my dick,” said a sad voice from behind him.

A tiny choke escaped Gerard, just before his shoulders began to shake beyond hope of concealment.

“I never did get you to measure mine,” Kimble continued in the same tragic tones as he caught up with Gerard.

“You’re crazy,” Gerard told him with conviction, drawing him closer.

“But you love me anyway.”

Gerard stopped in his tracks, his gaze traveling over Kimble’s face, which was pink from laughter and the cold. “Yes, I do,” he confirmed.

“Me, too.” Kimble yanked gently at the edge of Gerard’s jacket. “Me too. But not,” he added briskly, fighting a wave of sentiment, “so much that I’ve forgotten you got out of clearing the paths.” Discretion being the better part of valor, he began to run towards the house, slowed by the deep snow.

Gerard’s first snowball hit him fair and square on the back of the head. But while Gerard won the argument, he ended up losing the war somewhere between the stove and refrigerator in the kitchen, in a muddle of bulky clothing, clumps of ice from their boots and twigs.

 

“You realize it’s the height of bad manners to keep your hat on while making love?” Kimble told him, his cheek resting on Gerard’s thigh, a dopy expression still in place.

“No one’s ever complained before.” Gerard’s hand cupped the back of Kimble’s head, fingertips sifting through his damp hair.

“I can see I’ll have to get to work on you.”

“No question about it, but not for an hour or so.”

They lay together for a moment more but the floor was hard and their clothing was clammy and cold. Kimble raised his head to search his lover’s face and while Gerard recognized the mischief in it he wasn’t sure of its cause.

“I still say my ‘Dick’s’ bigger,” Kimble said provocatively.

Seconds later he was flat on his back, pinned to the floor, with the length of Gerard’s body brushing his - nudging his in one area.

“Want another measuring competition?” Gerard enquired, a challenge in his tone.

Kimble thought about it. “You might cheat,” he pointed out.

Gerard continued to maintain his look of superiority right up to the point where Kimble began to tickle him.

 

THE END


End file.
